Tuesday, September 11

It’s film festival season again in Toronto, which generally puts half of the population in super high alert mode for all things going-on, and the other half in a state of either “huh?” or “whatever”.

I only like the film fest for the parties, none of which I am ever personally invited to, but enough of which I manage to get guestlisted for. The movies? Mrah. I can’t even make myself go to the Paramount to see a week-old blockbuster let alone line up among crowds for a limited screening of something that my film-savvy friend Tanya can just summarize for me over cocktails the week after.

(Fun fact: when the boyfriend and I have movie dates, we rarely end up seeing the film. Instead we go for dinner, then enter the theatre lobby, ponder the movie we’ve earlier chosen to see, debate if we actually want to see it, and then leave. On more than one occasion we’ve had to return tickets purchased beforehand.)

I saw Paris Hilton last week at the DJ AM pre-festival party, but she was hiding behind the turntables all night long and, admittedly, the actions of numerous older d-bags at Ultra were much more amusing than the dancing heiress. Yawn.

And really, it seems to be local talent that delights more so than anyone international. The images of Brad and Angelina and Reese and Jake in Toronto seem just as, well, distant, as any other appearance they’ve made across the globe. It’s the same pre-programmed poses and phrases and really, I can’t tell the difference from pictures taken in Yorkville versus those from Venice.

But back here, ah, the fun unfolds. The film fest was the perfect topic to make Leah McLaren and Rebecca Eckler’s otherwise subtle cattyness suddenly enter the realm of obvious. (Until recently it was reserved to darling Leah subtlety lamenting about the lameness of ending up as an Albertan lawyer’s stay-at-home wife. Ouch.)

When Eckler professed her desire last week to be adopted by a celebrity entourage in the National Post (“With friends like these, who needs publicists?”) the article was quickly countered by McLaren’s weekend Globe Style column titled “Who needs enemies with friends like these?” which argued the patheticness of celebrity hangers-on. Well played as it was well-timed, indeed.

My friend Jenny is equally compelled by the local gossip scene, but probably because she film fest bumped into a CBC radio personality with whom she’s had a long-time crush. And he flirted back. Which might not seem like a big deal, but at least unlike a Hollywood somebody, there’s still the very real chance of a second encounter before next September.